


Underneath are the everlasting arms

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dancing, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon, Sea imagery, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 15:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: The sea and the words dance, they dance again.Small, quiet moments of dancing and tenderness across the years.





	Underneath are the everlasting arms

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written thanks to [an anonymous prompt](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=104076#cmt104076) and [Always dancing, never getting tired](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9X0cz85_oVI), by The Waterboys, which also inspired the title.

There are too many people on the ship. But right now, it is only them. No Mr Darwin, no octopi, no saltwater, no birds. And no music. Just them, and the quiet sound of the sea.

(The sea, the open sea, it has its own music. Always dancing, always dancing, never ever getting tired.)

Harry has never danced with anyone before. He is a bit clumsy, a bit shy. But he is not ashamed. He fits perfectly here, with his hand in John's, just so. Here, here is the place to be. Here, right here, in this sweet silence.

How did they find each other? He doesn't know. But it doesn't matter. All he knows is this. His hands, his heart, his everlasting arms.

*

And the years go by, and it's later, much later, and the men are drinking and laughing and dancing. But they have carved out a little world of their own. Here, warm like a furnace, soft and safe like love. And out there, up in the sky, millions of stars, lost in a tender dance of their own.

Tomorrow, they will go. They will be out there, out in the cold. But tonight, it is alright. They can be happy. They can be happy here, for a little while. If their world burns, John will find him. He will _find_ him. His heart, his arms, here, at the edge of the world. Here, with him, always.

*

He remembers the quiet evenings in John's small room. His books. His heartbeat. The way time seemed to stop, only for them. And the words sometimes danced and disappeared before his eyes, but it was alright. They had time. And he remembers how their hands danced too, trying to find each other in the dark. How they felt, how they _knew_. This home he had, close to his heart. Here, still here.

Here, like a blessing. Here, hand upon words, and hand upon hand.

*

It's cold and miserable out here. And he is tired. But no tears, _please_ , no tears. The world is still happy, it is still alright. The seagulls dance in the wind. His heart rises up, to dance with them, to meet the sky. And John is here, and his eyes are kind, always so kind. And the stones and the clouds dance too, so why not lie down and look up and hold on to each other? Why not sleep and dream, and dance while they still can?

The sea and the words dance, they dance again. But it is alright. He won't lose them this time. He will write them down. And if he can't, he will say them out loud. It's been years, but he is still not ashamed. Yes, he is blessed.

And the horizon dances, and John is still here, with him. He is not afraid. He hears the sweet silence, the music of the open sea. And he sleeps.


End file.
